Casualties of War
by Thornapple
Summary: As a great battle approaches, what would one have to do for victory? What is too low, too despicable in war? What would one say to get out of a tight situation?


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.**

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><p>"Nightshade," Angela muttered. "Where's that blasted thing? It was in here a moment ago…"<p>

"I'm afraid," a man's voice said coldly from above her bent figure, "that your precious fungus is here."

The witch did not look up. "Why thank you, Murtagh," she said brightly. "That will do most nicely. It's the only one I forgot to grind into powder. Now, if you'd just hand it over…"

Murtagh looked amused. "And what makes you think that I will give this to you like an obedient little boy? I could kill you, right here, right now, and no one would think the worse of me for it."

"A bit morbid, don't you think?" Angela replied, clucking her tongue. She looked up and surveyed him in an appraising manner. "And your age, compared to mine, _does_ make you a little boy in my eyes."

His face darkened. "Shut up, woman," he snapped. "Or I will slice off your head like a pumpkin."

"If you had wanted to kill me," she said mildly, "You would have done it when my back was turned. You wouldn't waste all this time talking about little boys and their nasty habits. And chopping my head off will be a waste of good pumpkin."

Murtagh clenched his teeth and drew out his sword. "You insolent little – "

"Now, now," Angela said reprovingly. "Pumpkin is nutritious. I wouldn't advise you to eat my head, though. It can be a bit tough. Now, if you'd be so kind as to pass me that delectable piece of nightshade…"

"And why should I aid your effort to weaken my liege's army?" Murtagh demanded, his face hard. "You ought to suffer grievous punishment for your actions."

"I suppose that includes a long, drawn out and painful death," she said dryly. "I've heard it all before, Murtagh. And you hate 'your liege's army' as much as I do."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Well you do, of course," she said impatiently. "It's fairly obvious, you know. Little boys have their emotions written all over their faces. Little boys such as you – of course – and Eragon. He's all right, if you're asking."

The little colour in Murtagh's face drained, making it resemble a deadened mask. The poisonous fungus fell between his loosened fingers and onto the ground. When he spoke, his voice was tight, controlled.

"Eragon," he bit out, "is undeserving of what he has."

There was a crease between Angela's eyebrows, and her eyes glinted as she rattled on.

"Now, there's no need for such unpleasantness," she chuckled. "Especially not from you, Murtagh Morzansson."

There was a swish through the air, and Murtagh's sword was at her throat.

"Enough, woman," he growled. "Enough of your nonsense."

"I think you will find it makes perfect sense," she replied, unperturbed, "just like how toads don't exist. Or is it frogs? I can't remember at the moment. But it makes no sense at all that you're so easy to antagonise. Is it Morzan's blood?"

"Don't you dare," he said through clenched teeth, "compare me to Morzan."

Murtagh did not know what fuelled the rage; many had called him the spawn of Morzan, had made unpleasant and snide remarks about his lineage, but none had made him as angry as this eccentric-looking woman clutching a bag of poisonous fungi.

"I once severed a man's head without hesitation," he hissed. "It was in the middle of a desert, and he was defenceless. Eragon wanted to spare him, said he deserved a sporting chance to fight us. He shouted and stormed when I sliced off that man's unworthy head without giving him a chance. He is a fool."

"That's a long speech," she said, impressed.

"I am stronger than Morzan," he snarled. "No one will ever think of him when they see me in the near future, for I will carve in their memories an even more terrifying image! And I am a thousand times more powerful than Eragon, just you see. I will prove it soon enough, in the battle."

"Ah, you deluded little boy," Angela chuckled. "Mere power doesn't matter; it's the brains behind it. What makes you think people will fear _you_ more? Just because you feared them before? It takes skill to make people truly frightened of you."

The sword pressed harder against her throat, making a droplet of blood spill down her neck and stain her tunic.

"They should never give a youth this kind of power," she muttered, staring vaguely at a spot a foot above Murtagh's shoulder, "Not unless absolutely necessary."

Then she looked disapprovingly at him.

"Well, it's been nice meeting you again, son of Morzan," she said through pursed lips. "I'd say that it would be lovely to meet up again for a cup of tea, but that would be a blatant lie. Besides, the fact you didn't sneak up on me proves you still have that misplaced sense of honour. Perhaps it can help salvage your situation."

Murtagh's face was now so white with suppressed fury that it resembled a sheet of old parchment. The chords on his neck bulged, and a vein was pulsing on his temple. The hand which held the sword trembled slightly as it clutched the hilt, the fingers whitened with compressed knuckles. A grinding sound indicated equally compressed teeth.

"I'd suggest you stop clenching your teeth so tightly," Angela said, looking amused. "They'll fall off when you get old."

"I will never get old!"

"Ah," she breathed, as realisation dawned on her face. "That's a new development."

"Of course it is," sneered Murtagh. "You don't stand a chance against me, witch. And now… say goodbye to your pumpkin of a head!"

As stupid a threat it was, there was still enough conviction behind it to sound menacing.

The sword withdrew, then whistled through the air with one purpose in mind; the obliteration of the unfortunate being standing before it.

Angela did not flinch; her eyes betrayed nothing but amusement. Then, she said, "Your mother was a highly tragic character, if you didn't know this before. You resemble her, in that aspect."

The sword tip froze, quivering, in the air. Murtagh's expression was frozen between anger and surprise, akin to one who had been punched in the face.

The witch continued speaking. "I cast the bones for her; she was a special character indeed, fairly powerful and capable of some pretty mind tricks. But her future… alas, was unfortunate."

Murtagh's face flushed. He looked torn between wanting to ask about his mother and running Angela through with his sword.

There was a hint of a smirk on her lips. "Now, if you want to turn out like her, then by all means, go ahead. It's painful, though. Too tragic for words, though I daresay most people don't know enough words to convey what they mean. Bit like you, perhaps. Such a pity, isn't it?"

"Be… quiet… woman," he growled.

"She was a perfectly lovely person," she said, undeterred. "Hopefully her offspring inherited those same traits."

A thick and awkward silence occurred.

Murtagh was not one to let petty insults and needling get to him easily. He had endured it for years, preferring to ignore the hurlers of said insults than to participate in a messy confrontation.

But this was different. He wielded power which many could only dream of; it would be child's play to dispatch this woman into the dark void of death. This insolent witch, poisoner, snake…

Tapping his finger on the hilt of his sword as it was lowered; he managed to get a firm grip on his composure.

"Tell me about my mother someday," he said tightly. "But not now."

Angela observed him intently. "So you won't cut off my head?" she asked in a more gentle tone.

"Not today," he said, sounding like every word caused him physical pain. "Maybe after you tell me everything you knew about… her."

His eyes had been downcast, hidden in shadow. Now, as he looked up, the witch noticed that they were very bright. The rest of his face was as hard as stone, but the eyes were disturbingly unfathomable.

"Go," he ground out. "Stop your wretched poisoning. You've done enough today."

She cocked her head to a side while backing away slowly. "I suppose you'll want me to keep my mouth shut," she said. "In exchange for letting me go unharmed."

"Oh, of course," he chuckled. "If but one word reaches Eragon's or Nasuada's ears, I will personally hunt you down, _make_ you to tell me everything you know about my mother, then put you through constant and unbearable physical pain."

"That sounds amazingly childish," Angela observed, though her face whitened slightly under the light. She backed away a few paces, no longer attempting to make the action inconspicuous.

"You can keep the Nightshade if you want," she said lightly. "Mayhap someday you'll do everyone a favour and poison yourself."

Her face was disappearing into shadow as she spoke, but her eyes held a vindictive glint which caused unease to worm its way through Murtagh's stomach.

Her figure grew darker and darker as she walked away… and so did the furniture surrounding him, but that couldn't be right, the flames were still flickering in their lamps…

_Poison._

"You," he spluttered, as pain flared up in his stomach. "You wretch!"

He heard her laugh in the distance, cold yet merry. A chill ran through him as his mind hovered between barely coherent and numbness. _Remember the ways to purge the poison._

A groan escaped his lips. From some distant corner of his mind, he heard her mocking voice.

"_I see the old king never taught you how to examine your food properly. That or you just never bothered."_

That wicked old hag.

Clutching his stomach, he set about to purging the poison from his body.

Through magical means, of course.

-:-

When Angela was at a safe distance from the camp, she stopped and gazed at the flickering lights of the tents. Her mouth was set at a hard line, the twinkle in her eyes gone.

"Soon," she muttered. "Soon they will feel the bite of the blade, the force of the shield and the heat of raging, unforgiving fire."

She looked up at the stars. Her face was filled with a type of sorrow and weariness seen only in those who had lived a certain number of years. The poison had been necessary… This was war, nothing was too underhanded… Little boys who thought they could fight ought to be taught a lesson…

That idiot boy.

It was unlikely he would die, of course. His food had been the first to be doctored, but most likely the poison had served only to enrage him and the Varden's army would feel his wrath when they struck the next morning.

It had been easy, so easy to manipulate his emotions, to play them like a bard jingling out a tune on a harp. Neglected boys, going by her experience, were most sensitive at the mention of their mothers.

Another boy's life destroyed by that mad king.

Her mouth twisted like she'd tasted something bitter. It was tragedy that his and Eragon's lives had been ruined forever, but was not the death of an ordinary soldier more tragedy to his family? Those boys were just… another two casualties of war. Nothing more, nothing less.

And those whom she had poisoned… were just another few casualties of war.

Just another few casualties of war.

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><p><strong>AN: I just had this random idea a couple of days ago and abandoned all my revision to write it down. Geez, now I'm gonna flunk Chemistry again. No surprises there.  
><strong>

**Anyway, I found Angela to be one of the most interesting characters in the series; she says the oddest things. I don't think I managed to keep the 'old' style of writing in the books, but hopefully she and Murtagh were in character? Please review :)  
><strong>


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